


this doesn't remind me of anything

by voodoochild



Category: Billions (TV)
Genre: Adultery, Doctor/Patient, F/M, Femdom, Hotel Sex, Infidelity, Kink Negotiation, POV Second Person, Soft Kink Play, post-episode
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-19
Updated: 2017-09-23
Packaged: 2018-12-31 11:47:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,958
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12131823
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/voodoochild/pseuds/voodoochild
Summary: After the Alpha Cup, Wendy and Bobby finally have it out. Old habits die hard.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written for the "sublimation" prompt at Prompt Stack Fill Round 2 at the PBAM community, unfinished by deadline. What can I say, they're inspiring, even if I am working on Fandom of One principles here. 
> 
> Set immediately after the Alpha Cup in "Optimal Play". Spoilers for everything up to it, major ones for "Magical Thinking".

"Don't wanna celebrate with Todd?"

His voice hits you between the legs, it always does. That Yonkers squawk he plays up for the masses, his reminder that he's a blue-collar boy under those Armani suits and Zegna shoes. His wardrobe costs more than your children's tuition, but in your own armor (Versace dress, Jimmy Choos), you can't throw stones. 

No matter how much you'd like to.

"You know I didn't come here for him," you say, and he rolls down the window of the Jag all the way. "No wife tonight?"

"Lara's got a plan. On-call IV drips for hedgies. Not sure why I haven't invested sooner, really. Hop in."

You hesitate at the door. "Where're we going?"

"The Ritz." He blinks blue-eyed sparkle at you. "Feeling kinda nostalgic."

He means seventeen years ago, back when he was barely a millionaire and you weren't quite a doctor. Back when neither of you were married, but met every so often at a hotel to play "cheating couple" or "client and hooker" and lost entire weekends fucking.

"You just won 15 mil," you say, raising an eyebrow. "I'm sure you could swing the real thing."

He pats the seat. "Taylor won 15 mil. I just talked them into getting out of their own way. And you know I'm allergic to call girls. C'mon, Wends, you gave me a heads-up about tonight, and you wore my Jimmy Choos. I'm not the only one who's nostalgic."

Everything in your head is telling you this is a great idea, even your UC Berkeley degree in psychology and 20 years' experience of precisely how big a trainwreck getting involved with Bobby Axelrod is. He's a steamroller, and you think you're beginning to lose your sense of when to get the hell out of the way.

Because you're still pissed at him and you're still in love with him and you even let your emotions lead you into working for a pissant like Krakow. There's a tiny newly-leased office in Chelsea, sure, but you also haven't pulled your funds from Axe Cap, and you drive the Maserati that still smells like his cologne. Sometimes you wonder why you and Bobby can't apologize like normal people, but you know you'd have left him behind years ago if he weren't the only person you know that's as smart as you are.

Chuck says your ego attracts him - attracts most men - but you know he's deflecting. Your soon-to-be ex husband always says "ego" or "brains" when he means "riding crop" and "attitude". 

And Bobby . . . swears he never needed a domme, he just needed an equal. You can be one - you'd _like_ to be the other - but his compartmentalization is going to drive you crazy.

"No shop talk," you say, finally. "No trying to coax me back to Axe Capital. No questions about my husband. We're going to fuck and then I'm leaving."

That small smile tells you he doesn't believe a word of it. "Okay."

You slip into the passenger seat, closing the door behind you.

***

This ride isn't like others you've taken to this hotel. Other times, you'd have had your hand on his dick already, just to see if he could concentrate enough to drive. Or you'd be teasing, leaning into him and kissing him just enough to make him whine when you pulled away. This ride is silent and weighted; you haven't really been alone with him since walking out. 

Bobby drums his fingers on the leather as he watches you watch him. "So who talks first, Wends?" he says, and you cross your legs. Let him know you're still in business mode, and he sighs. "Is this about Krakow? Cause that little prick took himself down."

"If you're gonna start needling me about tonight, I swear to god, Bobby, I will get out of the car right now."

"You wanna mingle with the wasted tourists and NYU kids, be my guest. You wanna fight about that Chelsea shitbox of an office you've exiled yourself to, we'll fight." He shifts lanes, throwing an arm across the seats and bringing the scent of him over. The cheap Adidas cologne he's been buying since he was 19 and the fabric softener his maid uses hits you, and it's making your toes curl inside the shoes he gave you for Christmas last year. "But if you wanna come to the Ritz with me and let me eat you out for a couple hours before we fuck in the hot tub, well, that's another story."

You're wet, of course. You've been wet since sitting across from him at the poker table. You could have gone home and broken out your toybox. Could have made a discreet call to Darlene for a sub to focus on. Could have done a lot of things, instead of getting into this car with the guy you swore off when you got married.

"So fucking apologize," you grit out, carefully lacing your hand in his hair and pulling tight. Bobby doesn't play like you do - organized kink gives him hives, the good Catholic boy - but some techniques are universal. "I don't want an explanation, I want an apology for invading my privacy."

"When did I invade your privacy?" 

His voice is clipped, eyes wide like he honestly thinks he's going to put one over on you. You lock eyes with him in the rearview mirror, refuse to back down. "When *haven't* you? Your latest surveillance goons are even more pathetic than usual. You should tell Hall they're getting more obvious."

"You know I'm not sorry," he says, and the innocent persona fades like a snap of your fingers. In its place is the Bobby you know - ruthless, arrogant, and honest to a fault.

"Bobby, that isn't the fucking point."

"Weren't you the one who taught me the difference between things I say to fuck someone one way or another, and things I say that are true?"

You press down, fingers at the base of his neck. He groans loud, curling his hands around the wheel, head tipping back slightly to bare his throat. Some days you think he'd be the best idea for a vanilla conversion project of all time, that desire for a challenge and his innate need to be liked . . . others, you could slap yourself for the notion.

"Jesus fucking Christ, Wendy," he breathes, and if his mouth says he hates it, his dick says he doesn't. He's hard in his jeans, you wish you could slide your foot against him a little, press down with your heels on his belly. "We agreed not to talk about your fucking husband. I - ah, *fuck*, I will apologize for the cameras, but not the necessity. Can you please, for fuck's sweet sake, let me go?"

You let him go, resting your arm on the window, and he breathes deep. Christ, you want to push, force him down, bare his throat, but that isn't who you are to him. You could have been, before Chuck and Lara, before 9/11, before Bobby learned to forget he wasn't Superman. You could have pulled him into your world, explored some fetishes with him, maybe even married him and gotten that 63 million dollar mansion in the Hamptons.

Sometimes that disappoints you. 

Sometimes you even let yourself admit how much that disappoints you.

"Thank you." He shifts, looks over at the Fifth Ave traffic, and takes a breath. "I apologize for the intrusion into your privacy. I did restrict the surveillance to you and Chuck only, I would never target Kevin and Eva."

"Don't you fucking dare," you say, leaning back in. "I don't have to tell you that I'll fucking gut you if you drag my children into this."

"I swear," he says. He shifts, rubbing his neck, and blinks over at you warily. "You wanna hop out, now you've got what you came for? Grand Central's right there."

Last chance, is what he means. Last opportunity to deflect, to tell yourself you don't want to fuck him. That everything you had is in the past. Last chance to sublimate into doctor/patient and a currently uneasy friendship.

Fuck it. Your marriage is finished. Bobby and Lara have whatever Bobby and Lara have that allows them to pursue others. You haven't wanted to burn anything down so much since you threw Chuck out of the house.

"I wanna go to the Ritz," you say, instead, and hook your finger into his belt loops. Let your hand brush a bit against his dick. "I want to fuck you like that time in Ibiza before my bachelorette party."

He grins, filthy memories in the smile. "That intense, huh? You missed me."

At the next red light, you let yourself have one kiss; one starving, messy, gorgeous kiss. He moans when you bite his lip and you whine when he pulls back. You both feel it, that stretched-tight tension, the way that you're a perfect match.

"Yeah, babe, I missed you."

"I'm not letting you tie me up again," he says, defensive. "None of that crazy shit."

That crazy shit is something you miss like a deceased friend. More, sometimes. 

"Bobby, shut up about it, okay? Sex is sex, what the fuck does it matter if I like mine different than yours sometimes?"

He doesn't have an answer, and it rattles him, but you're off the clock. Doctor Wendy left the building long ago.


	2. Chapter 2

The role you always play on nights like this slips back on like a college hoodie: familiar, comfortable, a little bit of pride that you're still pulling it off.

Bobby goes in first, small-talks the concierge, tips obscenely well for both privacy and memorability. Gets the penthouse key and orders about half the menu delivered in exactly three hours and gets comped a bottle of that obscure Chilean wine he likes. Talks them into letting him use the delivery elevator and to give you the second key when you get in.

Your Cali accent pulled out with your hair pinned up and your Jimmy Choos echoing on the marble scream "escort". Normal for the Ritz, except that the name you give the check-in desk is the one Bobby slipped to the concierge with his tip. They give you the key, but the jealousy on the guy's face never fails to give you a thrill.

The whole thing does it for you, has always done it for you. Bobby gets off on the novelty, he's never really had to sneak around, not with the parade of bad decisions he made in his twenties and then his marriage to Lara. It's a game, for him, something sexy and fun. But you fucking *love* this: the need to playact a role because your desires are too shameful to society. It's the same feeling you get when you put on a basque and leather stilettoed boots.

You pull your hair out of the bun and open the door to find him already stripped down, lounging in the bed and drinking $600 malbec out of the bottle. He's wearing those stupidly clingy boxer briefs, the ones that make you want to dig your nails into his ass every time he changes in his glass office, lording his body over the rest of the beta males on the floor.

"Get the fuck over here," he says, setting the bottle on the floor. "I've been dying to peel you out of that dress since Midtown."

"We're gonna talk, after," you say, and kick the shoes somewhere in the vicinity of the sofa. The view from the floor-to-ceiling windows is pure nighttime Manhattan, neon and steel visible beyond Central Park, and you leave it open. Let the city watch.

"Yes dear," he says mockingly, and you glare.

"No, shithead, we are. We're gonna do a session, because god knows I have to practically hogtie you to get you to stay still long enough."

He throws a pillow at you. "Psychoanalysis later, sex now. Unless you didn't want me to eat you out for those - what was it, hours?"

Yeah, it was hours. It's gonna be at least one whole hour of that, potentially two.

Body humming, you walk over to the bed - God, his freckles look amazing against the navy blue sheets - and he goes up to his knees. His hands are warm on your back and waist, pulling you against him and smoothing up and down your hips. He pushes your dress up and dips a hand between your legs, pressing the wet cotton of your panties against you.

"I knew you still wanted me," he murmurs, kissing at your ear, and you laugh. You're kind of obvious - there's a little tilt to your head both he and your husband have mentioned, you flush across your nose, plus the way you've been soaked since the poker game - and Bobby's fingers circle and press teasingly at your clit. You surprise yourself by how loud your groan is, how quick your hips are to arch and chase his fingers. "Yeah, Wends, fuck, I missed you too."

"You missed me, babe?" You dig your nails into his arm, kiss him too-shallow and fleeting, and he catches your fingers with his free hand. "No?"

"No marks. Still a rule."

You give in to the urge to pull his hair - lacing your fingers in the russet strands and jerking his head back - and the bared stretch of his throat makes you want to bite him. You kiss him instead, let him strain to reach you and groan when you let him go.

"Unzip me now."

He undresses you deliberately-slow, his hands all over you. Gripping your hips, your ass, grinding his dick against you while he inches the zipper down and kisses the back of your neck. Your dress drops to the floor, and if he was slow about getting the dress off, he's quick to unhook your bra and pull it off. Teasing fucking bastard that he is, he strokes quick and light over your tits, back down to the wet cotton between your legs.

"Stop teasing," you groan, sliding a hand down his belly and wrapping it around him. He whimpers, eyes going glassy and mouth open. You fucking love how helpless he sounds when you have your hands on him, and his breath is hot and unsteady against your shoulder. "I want your hands when you eat me out."

"Yeah," he breathes, "yeah, all right. Bottom or top?"

Kneeling over him is risky. You'd be tempted to hold him down, keep him where you want him, and he takes direction, but not to that degree. But lying spread out is also risky. He can touch everywhere he likes, he can control his speed and pace, and he can watch everything he's doing to you. You'll love it either way, come like fucking dying either way, but this is what you mean when you say the two of you would never work in the long term. You like being able to lose yourself, unless you choose not to. 

Bobby never gives you the choice.

"Lie back," he murmurs, with a kiss to your temple. "Let go for me, just let me lick your pussy. Swear to God, Wends, I'm gagging for how bad I want it. You just tell me when you've had enough."

And that's gonna be *never*, because he's eased you back to lie on the bed, peeled your underwear off, and licked slowly into you. One of Bobby's best-kept secrets is just how fucking much he loves eating pussy, and you nearly scream for the heat of his tongue and lips. He doesn't test, like Chuck, doesn't experiment to see what you like best; Bobby just knows. 

His left hand wraps around your thigh, and he throws his right arm up across your hips, holds you open and writhing. Later, he'll take both hands and run them up to play with your tits, stroke down to your waist, but now, he wants you to stay put and you aren't arguing. He savors you, works his tongue inside you, then focuses on your clit, groaning low in his throat for it.

He's still a goddamned tease, though, giving you just enough to melt you, make you chase his tongue and your own climax, taste it on the air - and then pull off to kiss the birthmark on your inner thigh, or nip gently at the skin there.

"Fuck you," you groan through your teeth, reaching your hand down to grip his hair. He bites you again, and you pull tighter. "Stop fucking around."

It would shock the hell out of you if he actually listened, and he doesn't. Keeps playing with you, pushes you up to the edge and eases you back, hums and groans against your cunt. You feel open and exposed, the cool air of the bedroom chilling your skin, your feet skidding on the sheets as you writhe.

You're overripe, dripping, swollen, the pulse in your clit making your head spin. Slick to the thighs, whining on every stroke, and he's breathing like he's fucking wrecked already. He groans again, kissing wetly at your clit, his tongue lapping at your opening. He doesn't stop making noise, once he gets into it, and you love hearing it. The sounds of your wetness on his mouth, messy smack of his lips and deep growl in his throat - everything makes you wetter and hotter. Your hips rock down in short, grinding motions, and he gives you the first climax in a slow suck to your clit.

Once you remember you have limbs, you tighten your fingers in his hair again. 

"More," you tell him.

He grins, wet down to his collar from you. "Always."


End file.
